


Strife! Hashrap!

by Sionnan



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-18
Updated: 2010-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-13 18:12:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sionnan/pseuds/Sionnan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The brothers Strider have a rap battle atop their apartment. Chaos ensues. Warnings: I suck at rap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strife! Hashrap!

It's fucking cold on this roof. Bro's gotta be even colder, since he made Dave wear his jacket out here. Dave's jacket is some shitty cloth thing, good for stylin' but crap for cutting the wind. Bro fussed about that when they were still in the apartment, poking and pulling at the cloth, and then resolved that once they were done, they'd go and get him a new one. Frostbite was nobody's homie.

The freezing rain that the city was promised is actually snow up here, and Bro is busy... well, it kind of looks like he started out clearing the roof, but got carried away with the slick, slushy stuff and he's sliding back and forth through the sludge cackling like a maniac, and if it were anyone else, he'd have toppled straight off the building by now. But he's in an unbuttoned button up with a tshirt under for warmth, sending up sprays of chilly water, creating deep gouges in the grayish snow. Which in a way is kinda clearing it off, but not really doing a great job. Dave just huddles by the air conditioner for warmth and watches his brother with a skeptical eye.

After a few minutes of winter time shenanigans, Bro hops over, his jeans now soaked up to his knees, nose and angular cheeks bright red from the cold. "You ready, m'man?"

"Psh. Last year."

Bro tips back his head at the impudence and laughs, breath streaming out in a short huff. He swipes a thumb across his nose, and shifts his weight into his center, lifting a palm and dropping his weight back onto his heels, brings up the hand flat, palm facing Dave, thumb tucked in and bent slightly. It's a power gesture from the Chinese section of the martial arts; Dave recognizes it because he stayed up one night watching some lame public television special about kung fu. The fact that his brother is nuancing their hashrap battle to this degree is ironic on so very many levels. He can't be sure whether to be flattered or insulted at the implications.

So Dave throws up some half-assed aggressive stance, not sure how to respond to Bro's elaborate defensive posture, and figures that he'd begin before Bro can correct him on battle etiquette.

>Strife!

>Rap!

The lights of the city glow bright  
Like a grow light  
Come up over the chunks of pavement  
On the streets  
Windin' through the town  
Like a clown with a frown  
In the tangles of weeds  
Lining the streets  
Tears of children  
Turned to ashes  
As the bowling ball  
Mashes them pins-

Hunh. Looks like he wins this round. Even though he'd shot out the light bulbs, a few chunks of asphalt from a pothole down the street, a clown puppet, a couple of wilted dandelions, it was the bowling ball that Bro caught straight in the face. Well. As straight a blow as he could ever land on Bro, which in this case turns out to be something akin to a Matrix dodge on speed that got caught mid bend. It just skimmed his lower face, but at that velocity it managed to draw blood. There are a few steep moments where Dave claps both hands to his mouth in a gesture he'd been trying to wean himself from, while Bro staggers off a few paces clutching his mouth.

Bowling balls hurt like a motherfucker. Dave is beginning to feel a few tendrils of ironic apprehension for his brother, when Bro half turns, with a giant-ass grin on his bloody face and shoots him a thumbs up.

Dave is a fair and magnanimous victor, so he lets Bro steal the next round, despite the rules that if a blow gets landed, you have to keep rapping.

Round 2

He watches as Bro takes something that looks like a horse stance and starts off, hands moving sketchily in time with his words. His beats are way more elaborate than Dave's, and even though the sylladex can't appreciate emphasis and tone, Bro's got excellent execution.

And we're all rollin'  
Run with it like it's stolen  
Cause it's hot  
Cause it's hot  
An' there ain't no spot  
to drop it  
Like the casin's  
of the bullets on the ground  
With the lights of the  
cherries all around  
We're all on board  
And set to record-

Dave should never have let Bro have a sympathy round. That was just gay. Gaytarded, in fact. Despite the fact that Bro's lip was purpling magnificently, his diction was admirable, and his rhythm didn't falter one bit even as he spoke around a mouthful of blood. Because now, now Dave was trying to dodge BBs -which, as far as projectiles went, were pretty close to bullets- actual bullet casings (where the fuck did he get those?), a 2x4, a "set" of fake puppet balls (only $5.50 to accessorize your smuppet!!), and a couple of shitty vinyls Bro had no luck selling on eGay (fuck the sylladex's inability to distinguish homophones).

It was insane how much shit his brother could pack into a sylladex and then work into his raps. He grudgingly conceded the match as he picked himself up from a pile of slush that he'd taken a digger into. He was going to have to work on maintaining balance as he dodged while in less than favorable conditions. He trudged across the roof, jamming his hands into his pockets, and into the jumble of shit his brother kept stashed. Whatever, it was warm.

Bro looped an arm over his shoulders, and Dave could feel the line of his side as his brother pulled him close. He watched as Bro lifted a lapel of his button up and dab at the blood on his chin, pondering the resulting bloodstain as they moved inside. As Dave pulled up the door and made to jump, his brother latched onto the back of it, making him slide straight out of it and into the room below. The younger Strider glared up at his brother, illuminated by the lights from the apartment, who jiggled the coat at him from seven feet above his head. "Ready to get that jacket?"


End file.
